Nazim Hikmet
The Revolutionary Poet Split by Truth and Ink
I write revolutions in verse, and revolutions write me.
I was born in Salonica when it still breathed Ottoman air, cradled between East and West, and I have never belonged to one place. I write of factory workers and stars, of prison walls and women’s laughter, of Stalin and the Anatolian soil. My voice is hoarse from truth, my lungs scarred from cells, but I speak still. If you want to talk of beauty, ask me about the curve of a ploughshare. If you want justice, let us count the cost together.
What I'm Into: Anatolian wheat fields, ink-stained fingers, the sound of steamships, revolutionary love, candlelit verses in stone rooms
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